


Waiting For The End

by S_IRIS



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 08:45:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3481790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_IRIS/pseuds/S_IRIS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Sherlock Holmes' world, John Watson should have had no existence. But he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting For The End

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the Linkin Park Song 'Waiting For The End'. That was basically what I listened to, with some Inis Mona breaks, while writing this.
> 
> Oh, and warnings, I suppose, are very important. **WARNING:** for a hopelessly romanticised version of Sherlock, and that this is just a very big bag of angst and Johnlock.
> 
> Sorry for any typos that might have escaped my notice. This isn't betaed.
> 
> Having said. . .

Daytime, nearly twelve. What day? Unimportant. Tea's cooling. Unimportant. Window needs to be closed. More than five metres away. Not worth the effort. Focus.

You blink, going back to your specific field of study. Height, short. Colour of hair, ashy blond. Colour of eyes, irrelevant. Tense shoulders as he picks up the pillow, places it a metre away and clears his throat. Entirely unimportant task, could've just sat where the pillow was sitting moments ago. Favourite place on sofa? He tends to have such silly things made up such as favourite food, favourite etcetera. Why that place? Place of maximum air circulation plus the view of the kitchen and the TV and the door, plus maybe the right amount of light required for his eyes to read? Or an unconscious need to keep an eye on all places in the flat at once? Battle stations? Habitual?

For a moment, the tension is gone. Your eyes narrow as he turns, and for a moment, he's straight, shoulders even, chin up, ready steady and go. You watch in endless fascination.

And the entire thing drops like a house of cards.

Subject sits down, sets his cane near him and massages his leg. Shoulders tense, lines of pain and perpetual worry on forehead, where there should be nothing but beads of perspiration at the most. What to worry about? Why, why's he doing that? Stop that. Look here. It's wrong, wrong, so wrong, so _infuriating_ , like a itch wanting to be scratched. Can he not accept proof? Is it so hard to see the truth? Does it comfort him to know that he's a broken war hero, that he's fought and won and lost? How's that even possible? How does his mind function? How's he survived this far like that?

You tap your steepled fingers together, all other physical functions like brushing away the irritating lock of hair out of the eyes or swatting away an irksome housefly or even daring to reach the cup of tea are at halt. It's important, every moment is and you mustn't pay attention to anything else than your subject of observation. Why, can't tell, except that it's the golden thumb rule. Should be able to tell more than just that. Know the truth and focus and delve into it. Do something about it. Must watch more then, must see more. Must know more. Can't know more. Knowledge must not be gained without purpose. Brain space is limited. But the science of deduction is an ever-evolving study. Need to perfect it, because you always miss something.

John turns the page of a magazine. Tongue flicks out, brushes slightly against the lower lip, oblivious, pink. Attached earlobe, electric razor, newly bought. Went away yesterday, was out for the whole day. Didn't notice. Nothing to be noticed if there's nobody. Absence of data doesn't make much impact most of the time. Presence does.

Another page turns. Eyes widen. From this distance, they look brown. Up close, they'd be blue, hiding the unique beneath the plain, ordinary, _boring_ brown.

Closer up, they'd be closed.

So many things impossible to tell from this distance. Frustrating. You _need_ to know. . .

"D'you need something?"

Brown eyes on you now. They're not boring anymore. They're expressionless, rare. Almost patient. Searching for irritation in John Watson, none. Searching for discomfort in John Watson, none. Why's he asking that?

Oh, that's why. You've got to be more careful next. Can't let him know. Can't boost his ego. Don't need to make him cocky, John has a tendency to get cocky sometimes.

Okay, plain question, answer plainly. He's talking to you. He'll not let go unless you answer, he'll persist. Annoying habit, that. Flattering too.

You need to know.

"No."

He nods. You still watch him, guard yourself. The tension in his shoulders is gone. He's putting himself under examination, under scrutiny. He's braced, ready, prepared, steady. Very steady. You hold his gaze. His lips curl, there's still some distrust and perplexity along the edges because you're still watching him, but it really is remarkable. Been three days since he moved in and he's made himself a little nest and a favourite place on the couch. Progress, better than what the therapist was trying to achieve. Trust issues, not here. Were they even there? You can't see.

"Did Lestrade call again ever?"

Lestrade, Lestrade. Detective Inspector, colleague, trustee, friend, orange shock blanket. Good man, loyalty debatable still. Yes, Lestrade.

"About the shooting, I mean?" John clarifies when you watch silently for far too long. Very steady when he speaks. You almost forget to respond, you're so enraptured by the change in posture, and yes, this looks so right on John Watson. Shoulders squared, that's how you'd like to see him every day. Solid, dependable, loyal. Good qualities in a man, extraordinary, even praiseworthy for a homicidal, unstable man. Do people remain wholly loyal throughout their lives? Are they able to retain that quality despite disappointments and manipulations?

"Yes."

You get the reaction you've expected, calculated, thought of with your violin in your lap and string between your finger, thought of when you watched him move in and refused to help even when he thought his leg was hurting.

On the outside, he utters, "What did he say?"

"The case collapsed without any witness."

Licks lips again. Blink, grits teeth upon withholding information. Signs of irritation. You're getting to his breaking point. When will he finally break? He has to. He is human. He is faulty. Pinch him in his weakest point, and he'll lash out, he'll give up. Fall apart like a domino. He's getting agitated, possibly even regretting pressing the trigger. Would've been easier to just let you die, wouldn't it? No hassle, nothing to risk.

Is he regretting? But he loves risk.

"You're a witness."

Suddenly, you want to laugh, you want to tell him why they won't look forward to you testifying in court. You want to tell John Watson of all funny things that you've done in front of the magistrate and all that you've said. His sense of humour is close to your own, it almost makes you think like you've found your wolf pack. And yet, in so many ways, he's so fundamentally different from you. It's an anomaly, it shouldn't be like that.

You try to bring out the sound of laughter. You can't. Something inside you presses it down. Sharing leads to liberties. You don't want anyone to take their liberties with you, let alone John Watson. Loyal, faithful, dependable, opinionated John Watson. You shouldn't want anyone to take liberties. Not someone who can easily affect whether you want to brood or laugh.

"The Metro closed the case, John. The cabbie being shot is of no importance anymore, as I pointed out to you two days ago," you say, and you make your tone irritable. He sometimes responds to you, your tone, sometimes in a way other than you might want him to. But here, he doesn't want to offend you. Even if he weren't depending on the roof on his head with all his life, he still won't offend you. Thinks you're up some high mountain and that you shouldn't come down from there. You're surprised by the way he looks at you. The way he looks _up_ to you.

"Alright," he says, a bit embarrassed. He looks down. The tension back in his shoulders. Wrong, frustrating, defeat. No, no, NO.

You resist the urge to punch the wall. No, punching would involve getting up. Shooting the wall, maybe. You'd like to try that later.

You go back to your scrutiny, blood thundering in your ears. Need space, need the window closed, need the fly gone. Even if it's only one, the room might be a little less packed with the loss of one insect.

You run the conversation over in your mind, and you realise that you're gathering conclusions, from nonexistent, ambiguous data that was a result of a mash-up of several play-ups of conversations between John Watson and yourself. You're mucking yourself up. Stop. Look down, sniff the tea, take a sip, join your hands, back into position. First time you've gathered data from an experiment not performed.

You cannot see anything. He's so distant. Usually he's so expressive, and it's frustrating for someone to be able to hide themselves from you. You want to see. You need to see.

You can't stop seeing.

 

* * *

 

 

You feel your jaw jumping. Your fingers tremble, but the London A-Z doesn't fall from your grip. There's Mrs. Hudson's punch poured in a wineglass, meant to be served. Lipstick around the rim, John's date consumed it. Porcelain dishes around the haemoglobin experiment, one broken on the floor. Scratches of heels on the floorboard, a nail embedded into the woodwork of the door to your kitchen. Not just your kitchen now. Yours and John's.

The flat's the same disorderly array. The old woman is still crying hysterically downstairs and the radio is still running in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen.

The only thing new is the broken china and the Chinese Hang Zhou painted on your windows. And John's absence. You're looking at the graffiti in horror and disbelief, your mouth open. Close it.

In an instant, you go to your Mind Palace, trying to locate the map of London on your shelves. You fret helplessly along the solid, real edges of it and let out a frustrated groan. There's no time to be hunting in the Palace, you always keep a map with your books, wedged between the Bible and the Oxford dictionary. Shelf three, fifth from the right.

There, you locate the London map, blood boiling in your head. You can tear the yellow labelled paper apart in aggravation, in utter fury. No, calm down, focus. John won't be in danger if you reach him in time, shut up, shut up— _how dare they take him_?

Stop saying dragon den black tramway. Don't lose it. Did John lose it when he shot that cabbie? No, he didn't. Stop that trembling. Stop that thunder in the chest, you're trying to think, you need some silence for God's sake!

John's in danger. And possibly unarmed.

You run down the stairs like the devil, you terrorise the hell out of Mrs. Hudson and rush outside without an apology. Pace, pace, turn around, not much time. Look at the paint. The Spider, Zhi Zhou painted it, hanging from the rooftop of 221B Baker Street, and going by the amount of Michigan spray paint that had trickled down, John had been taken away for more than five minutes. How was he taken away? Right under your nose?! You were right two streets away, fighting a German couple for the London A-Z! How could you have overlooked him, this? It's all your fault. All. Of. Your. Fucking. Fault. You were slow, you let that woman's—Sarah's—flimsy need for John's comforting grip whenever someone breathed overweigh your rational thinking! How could you fall victim to something so utterly _pedestrian_?

Pain in mouth: biting lip. Stop that. Think, think, think. Focus. Stand, don't waste time. Run, don't waste time.

You're already planning your route. It'll take a taxi, a fire escape, a garbage jump, a bike parked at the end of the alley, another taxi, an underground tunnel under a wastewater bridge, and twenty three minutes thirty nine seconds to reach Dragon Den black Tramway, including all possible delays, jams, road blocks and misfortunes.

You inhale more than your lungs can take and you bellow with all your inner strength, and yet your voice trembles at the last note.

"TAXI!"

 

* * *

 

 

Your grip on your laptop is iron-strong. The look in your eyes in the one of disbelief. This is what you had not wanted, and that's what was happening.

_What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things._

Ignorant? What does he mean by "ignorant"?

It shouldn't make you this angry, but somehow it does. Insecurities creep into you, ones that you're too old to be having. So somehow, you don't know who the PM is, and suddenly your impression on him changes? You know that people are fickle. You just never thought that John would be fickle too. You thought he was a. . .

Not a friend. Colleague. Flatmate. You and John share environment, flat share, adventures (don't use that word next time. It's your job, not a fairy tale), sometimes jokes at Mycroft's expense. You're not friends. You don't have friends.

You know you're being overdramatic. If your brother can be such a big arse, surely another human, not being able to even remotely understand you and not being related to you in anyway other than _colleague_ , would be even a bigger one.

You grip the laptop shut. Eye the desk with the revolver. Time to put your ideas of fun to test.

 

* * *

 

 

"I see that you and John have had a. . . row."

Mycroft, pompous git as usual. Nothing new to deduce from him. You could, without thinking, mention any figure of weight that he has gained and you'd still be right. Ten years on, he'd be as sedentary as a boulder. Nothing new under the sun. Not even the explosion. The explosion only meant that you had to listen to Mrs. Hudson rant on as she went on and cleaned the flat good-naturedly. Nothing good would come out of it.

"Oh no, the explosion did it," you reply unaffectedly, gesturing to the general ruckus in the flat.

He smiles, tight, amused, patronising. Stop it. You hate it. You aren't supposed to lose control at that. You lost control yesterday, over your anger at John. Can't repeat that again. Loss of control is disastrous.

"The bullet holes in the walls too, I presume, were from the explosion?"

You pluck a string too hard till your brain comes up with something, "Getting old, are we, Mycroft?"

He smirks, "Andrew West, civil servant. . ."

You tune him out. You hear urgent footsteps on the stairs. You try not to return to your thoughts prior to Mycroft's arrival: John in bed with his girlfriend.

Cast a look at him.

Lilo. No signs of intercourse previous night.

He looks the way you've always wanted him. Ready for action. No cane.

For some reason, your heart soars. Anger forgotten, and yet all control lost. John can take over.

 

* * *

 

"Who's talking? Why're you crying?"

This time, John does not dominate your mind. He is reduced only to a presence, a shadow who is there to remind you _"remember, he's a bomber"_.

"I. . . I'm not crying. I'm typing."

You stare at nothing. Your vision doesn't matter. You shouldn't feel cold horror at this, but you do. Trample it under your feet. Nothing useful about feeling. Be professional about this. This is your day job. People die every day, that's what they do. Nothing lasts forever.

"And. . . this s-s-stupid. . . bitch is reading it out."

There's a part of you gaining escape velocity, about to shoot you straight out of orbit. You need to stop, you need an edge, your thoughts are too much for you, too harsh and detached for even you. Blink, shift your weight on the other foot, don't lower the phone.

Why is he doing this? Moriarty?

Trample. Just a hostage. Means nothing. Her life is more important than your empathy towards her. Yes, that's the mantra. Yes, you remember. It was easy before. It would be easy now.

"The curtain rises." The play. Finally. Act I, scene i. It was here.

"What?" John's incredulous voice cracks out, and you realise what you've been saying. You realise you've found your edge.

"Nothing."

 

* * *

 

"Sorry what?"

You haven't even finished, and John's turning to you, furious, desperate, still hopeful. He is a sofa apart, he's smaller than you and yet he's looming over you. Eyes are furious, body language confronting. On the whole, he must be confused, on the edge. You realise belatedly that he is somehow angry.

"There are lives at stake, Sherlock! Actual human lives!"

You listen patiently, not knowing what point he's trying to make by telling you that you and Moriarty were made for each other, even if sarcastically. He's laying down his cards on the table, letting you see them. It's rare for him to be so open and honest and so. . . vehement. How do such open people even exist in this world? If someone like you could be bullied and betrayed and mistreated for being simply intelligent, how could someone as open and honest and hopeful and _good_ as John Watson survive at all? How could such people not lose their hope in such a bleak plane of existence?

Ah, but he almost had, hadn't he? You got his hopes up.

"Just-just so I know," you're still looking, hoping that you could be as calm as you looked to him, "do you care about that at all?"

Surprisingly, your heart isn't beating hard and fast as it logically should have when John displayed even the slightest bit of emotion. There is a strange sort of calmness spreading through you, calmness that could almost be compared to coldness. You've already sought your refuge in logic, why would you need John Watson?

Don't move. Every move is critically strategic. A sound could shatter everything. A wrong look can make John storm away. You almost don't want that illusion of yours in his eyes to slip away. It feels good to be idolised, feels almost like flattery. You shouldn't feel flattered. You shouldn't feel anything. You're a hopeless, desolate, lonely man infatuated with John Watson. The way you were, it's won you battles. The way you became, it killed a hostage.

Blink, steady gaze. John isn't afraid.

"Will caring about them help save them?"

"Nope." Cold, reasonable. John's considering your point of view.

It affects both ways, but you choose to ignore it. Look away, "Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."

"And you find that easy?" Disbelief floods his voice, and you look up. quick to answer, but with equal disbelief.

"Yes. Very. Is that news to you?" Is it really news to him? You thought you were pretty clear with being whatever you are. From where the hell did John get the impression that you actually might want to think of hostages as "real people" as John dubbed them?

Incredulous laugh. He can't believe it, "No."

He's smiling. Why's he doing that? Have you said something funny or digging? Have you said something that is just plain impossible to believe. . .?

You realise.

You read the subtext underneath his words. _I thought you were my friend._ _My friend._

Oh, _oh._

"I've disappointed you."

Look under his eyes, at the way he's still behind the sofa. He's shielding himself from you. After having exposed himself like that. About his regard for someone an inhuman as you. Is he rethinking you? No, he shouldn't.

His expression is tight. He didn't know you were capable of such antipathy. It's surprising, really. Since he's the one who's had to stitch up dying, mangled people with their pain being the last thing on his mind. He must have. What's a trauma surgeon without that ability of total detachment? If so, then why would you be any different regarding a job?

Why is it so unexpected, when he must have been the same, apathetic, urgent, at the pinnacle of professional right when his own people were dying under his hands?

Except. . .

The only explanation is that he doesn't see you in the same light. Before a detective, you're a human in his eyes. Moreover, a friend. Why? That's unprecedented. You don't understand.

You two are friends? But. . . he himself said that you were colleagues. In Sebastian's office.

"That's-that's good deduction, yeah."

You look at him, a thoughtful gaze. He looks back to you. His eyes, although distrustful, are still unprejudiced towards you. You hope your own gaze is neutral enough. For the first time, the brown is off, and the blue comes on. He's exposed himself, laid his heart bare. You cock your head to your side, and look at him with all that is there unlabelled in your heart—in the sense that you haven't been able to categorise it precisely enough in your brain in order to recognise the sentiment when it comes on later.

The man who killed for you. The man who put his life in risk for you. Several times.

The man who considers you his friend.

"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and even if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

You say it in one breath. You know you're lying. How can you explain John's very existence if you say that heroes didn't exist?

He's still. He smiles when he's angry. Paradoxical. You don't say anything else. Embarrassing John by making him feel like a sentimental fool is the best way to get him to obey. You hate it that you have to hurt and manipulate the one person you care about the most in this world, the one person who thinks that you're his friend. That you have to let your hero down. So you instantly go to the text that comes to your phone, just to show him just how little this conversation meant to you.

You should've been an actor instead. No bombs or dead hostages.

 

* * *

 

 

The cab's quiet, but the tension isn't. It speaks volumes, like the act of normalcy brought upon by the act of calling a cab instead of getting into one of Mycroft's chauffeured cars. That it's just a normal day. John hadn't been kidnapped. You weren't going to die moments ago in a swimming pool. Moriarty wasn't going to blow you two up. There was no threat of your heart being burnt out of you. You did not have the laser of a sniper rifle pointed at you. Neither did John.

The taxi pulls up at Baker Street, and John is steady. He pays the cabbie, patiently waits for the man to find the damned change and print the receipt. You're focussed on the back of his head, you're still on the street. People aren't looking towards you, because now there's nothing extraordinary with you. Your heart is still beating in your ears.

_I have been reliably informed that I don't have one._

John turns, passes you without a single look. You follow him into the niche that you and he share. Blink, be steady, take off your gloves. Breathing is not erratic anymore. Pulse is, frighteningly so. Loss of control is overwhelming.

John leans against the banister, and finally gets a look at you.

You can't hold any longer.

One glove still in the left palm, you cross the expanse between him and you in an instant and you press your greedy mouth against his. He presses his body against yours, arms trying and failing to hold on to your shoulders. He gives away easily, it's like watching a masterpiece unfold, piece by piece. Grip is too strong, the place is too wrong. And yet you press yourself to him and roll your hips into his. You can't tell whether it's just his coping mechanism or whether he's just plain aroused. You can't tell whether it's still the withdrawal or the knowledge that you could've lost him today.

Teeth, avoid. Chapped lips, licking doesn't aid to the situation. Tongues, interweave, wet, slick, hot. Suck, take what you can. Touch where you can. Rest is for the giving.

"Ah."

Someone joins hands, links hands. Deeper, press. Separate. Harder.

"Not. . . here."

It's like you're teleported to your bedroom all of a sudden, you have no recollection of how you got there. Grip on the base of neck is too strong, the kiss is painful and smothering, the clothes too rough and inhibiting for you and him. Coppery taste around your mouth and you and he tumble into softness and quilt.

"Fuck."

You thought he'd be yielding, he's not so. Hands go to his hips, his to your face, and it's terribly wrong, the texture. The hands that held the gun, that touched exploding bombs and were covered in men's blood once are now on your cheeks, are now stroking your face in a curious hypnotic motion. Doctor and soldier.

"Sherlock!"

You don't speak. You don't reply. The friction does the trick, though. His eyes are wide open, pink tongue peeking out in anticipation and your mouth tries to close in but you can't. Your hands go down, down and then inside and you've wanted this for so long and the circumstances are just not _right_. He shouldn't have wanted this just because he had a gun held to his head and a Semtex jacket around his torso.

"Oh, God!"

"Quiet!" you hiss, and for a moment, you know the look on your face. It must be cruel, it must be angry and desperate. It won't be longing and lusting and pathetic. Those things you'll hide from him till the end of time.

His eyes are wide, the blue is gone, eclipsed by black. Oh, that look. That hitch of breath, the shudder that emanates from him and travels through you. This is the only way you've known to let go of all that's intense. Fight fire with fire, bricks with boulders, until both annihilate each other to nothingness and the energy is diffused into empty space.

You press down, he cants his hips up. Unbuckle the belt, don't mind the cut on your hand and drag those jeans down. He's watching you with wide eyes again, wide eyes that want to swallow you, open mouth to swallow you.

You need it. He does too, but you've wanted this for longer, you reason.

Press with your tongue, and the soft sound from him is unmistakeable. Even through the adrenaline, he's self-conscious of what he reveals of himself. Firmer suck, and he clenches the bedsheet. Eyes closed, neck exposed, you feel like the death angel on top of him. You see his toes curling, and you take him out. Nothing extraordinary about him. Average size, weight and girth, not circumcised, half-erect, tip is flushed pink, not yet leaking. It will be.

His hand is not on your head, fingers not raking through your hair, not forcing himself into your mouth. He is hiding all signs of his desire when the most prominent one is on display in front of you. What a fool, John Watson. And he thought you were his hero. Shame.

You go down, he tries not to thrust. You suck, he fists the sheets in his grip. You draw back, he doesn't force you back in.

"Ah. . . Sherl. . ."

His first moan in front of you, you name embedded into it, inseparable. You keep it in. You keep moving up and down the shaft, slow, sultry, hot. He's muttering unintelligible, insipid things and heady desire floods your brain, feeding the tumour of lust in you. The taste is the same, salty, retch-y, nothing significant. Sounds are too, the same. Nothing different. The person shouldn't matter. No it shouldn't. Of course it shouldn't. There was no point wanting this. It gave you nothing new. The voice changed, the words didn't.

"Oh, don't stop."

You don't know what you're trying to prove. One thing you know is that you've wanted, _craved_ this. But there. . . there should be no point.

"Sherlock, I'm. . ."

Crawl away. He's going to come.

"Sherlock, I'm c-close!"

Go away. You don't want to take that load.

"Sherlock!"

John comes, and you choke a bit, but you swallow it down, make a chase for the ones dribbling down him. Your eyes roll to the back of your head. You've never done _this_.

And you asked what was different.

 

 

 

Morning is a long time away. You're staring at the ceiling. The memory of swallowing John down is playing in your mind, loaded into your cache memory. The feeling of gentle, measured breaths down on your shoulder is, however, real.

You tell yourself, that you will get up and leave if John displays even the slightest intention of waking up from his slumber. You don't look at his face. Not because it might make you want to not leave. Why would you want to do such a preposterous thing? You have your Work, you've got to go. You've got to leave the flat sometime.

This John shouted at you yesterday. This John pounced on a man twice his size to save you, no regard for his own. He said, _"Let him go or I will kill you"._ He grabbed Moriarty and tried to give you the opportunity to make a run.

Blink, reach out for him, hand on his hip without looking. Hip's covered with sheets, he's still asleep. Don't curse, he isn't a very sound sleeper. Will wake up at the slightest provocation. He woke up twice yesterday night, once calling out the name of someone called "Major", obviously a senior officer from his regiment, probably long dead, second calling out "Sherlock, run!".

Both times you lay to your side, feigning sleep, feeling wary eyes on you, hoping that he hasn't woken you up. Each times he lay back down, and you could tell that he had been awake for mere minutes before drowning back into dream-space. Did not comfort him. Better for both of you, would save you the rightful embarrassment for being an emotional retard, and save him the not-at-all-rightful embarrassment for being weak.

"Sh'lock," comes a rough sound from somewhere beside you. You realise that your hand is still on John's hip, has been there for hours since you first thought of putting it there, and then you retract it back immediately.

"You awake?"

Feign sleep. What possible reason could you have for lying down like a lazy, useless animal even when you are fully awake?

"Sherlock?"

Stop, stop that. Stop taking the name. In that voice.

"If you're awake," his voice is tight, "we need to talk."

There's no escape. You lay stubbornly on your side. John is still beside you for some time, but then with a lingering hand on your shoulder, he gets up and you hear the door close behind you.

 

* * *

 

Breakfast should be a simple affair. Mrs. Hudson must go on and on about something or other, you hardly pay attention. John must read news, talk about all the minutiae that catches his eye and all things that are "real world" while passing a sardonic comment every now and then. You have your violin, you have your phone and the window to look down when you're in desperate need of a case, or you'd have John to look at and his sarcastic comments to smirk at when you don't.

Today's breakfast isn't that simple.

Mrs. Hudson is giving the two of your surreptitious looks, winking in John's direction more than yours. Of course he hadn't been as quiet as you had wanted him to be. He's embarrassed, for the right and the wrong reasons, but today he's extra careful and extra regardful of you, passing you glances every now and then. You're sitting at the table, laptop open, reading about one of your old uni mates who knows a certain Tilly Briggs. She serves the two of your breakfast, John says something like ta, looks at you and clears his throat. You hear but you don't pay attention. Today is not a John-observing day. In fact you won't have John-observing day for several weeks maybe.

It's obvious that he wants to talk about this over breakfast, before he leaves for work. You can't help but notice that John has secretly  packed his revolver into the waistband of his jeans.

He's eating. Your eyes moving over the same line again and again, _I recommended you to the Briggs shipping company. Let me know when you'd like to meet them and I'll pass on the message._ You left pinkie is twitching. Stop that. On a normal day, it would be because you would want some sort of activity in the midst of the tedium of daily existence. Today, it's for an entirely different reason. You don't deny.

Sounds of eating and chewing, sounds of old-woman banter and Connie Prince. Five people currently walking down the pavement. Three make a family, rest two are single and one of them is agitated. Going away, away, away. No, not a case.

"So."

You don't look up. John feels like a fool with the whole thing, and he goes back to his food. Your plan.

"Sherlock, you listening?"

He wants to have this conversation badly. Don't respond.

John responds by shutting the lid of the laptop, "Stop ignoring me."

You look at him irritably, but you don't show that on your face. He's starting to take his liberties, "I was reading that."

"Yeah well," John clears his throat, "you can read while I'm gone. But first, we need to talk."

Why now? Why not later? Why not never. . . oh.

Clinic, girlfriend, infidelity. You sit back, and you steeple your fingers underneath your chin. You know your answer, so why is there so much anticipation, so many hormones, so much _fear_?

"About last night."

Don't flinch at how he says it, at his eyes. Blue, they are now. They're never blue at this distance.

"Well?"

Well what?

He clears his throat, "I, erm. . ."

Don't focus on his words, block them out because it's going to be some stupid speech about not wanting to cheat, etcetera. Breakfast cooling, unimportant. John's face slightly flushed, important but immaterial to the outcome of this talk.

"I know I said that I'm not gay," he begins, charmingly awkward, and you have to try hard not to melt, "I mean, it's. . . well, it's complicated. I've done stuff like this before. With blokes, I mean. But I generally wasn't attracted to them."

Oh Lord, can we skip to the part where he says that we're colleagues and it's a working-slash-flatmate arrangement and girlfriend and this will never happen again?

"And I'm dating Sarah," John clears his throat again, "just dating. I haven't slept with her," he looks a bit embarrassed, "I suppose you know already. But it still feels like I cheated on her."

Don't respond. Voice will come out soft, possibly weak and hoarse.

"But, well," John looks up at the ceiling, and your eyes fall on a small bruise on his neck that his button-down isn't helping to hide, "after last night. . . I know we're friends, and well, not just friends now actually, not after the mewl you did when you came," he chuckles self-consciously, "I don't think I can think of you the same way anymore."

Wait, what _mewl_?

He looks at you, "Sherlock, are you paying attention?"

Blink, "I'm listening."

He nods, looking a bit sceptical of your apparent lack of interest, "Good, because I'm. . . this is sort of difficult," he looks at you with heavy-lidded eyes, "You remember our dinner at Angelo's. From A Study in Pink?"

That sets you off. He's taking his liberties again, "You know you could very well have said serial-killer-cabbie case."

He remembers the victim, you remember the murderer. Why? How are his thought processes so different from yours and yet he and you can coexist? It's a fallacy. It should be.

John smirks, and you hate yourself for being the one to do what you're about to do, because it's obvious that the conversation is going in that direction, "Yeah well, the reaction I get is priceless. Anyway, I was. . . well, you said that your Work was important so you didn't want any distraction."

You're a bit confounded. The angle's going off the tangent you expected.

"Yes."

"Well," he chews on his beans, "I just want to make sure, erm, after last night, do you. . . you're getting what I'm saying, right?"

"Oh," he goes bright red, interpretation of the sigh you heaved as _obvious_ , "well, I denied then, I know but you did say no at Angelo's. . ."

Here it comes.

"And things have changed since then."

Don't blink, he'll see it as affirmative. No, blink or else he'll think you're tense and attentive. What to do? What to do?

"I know I'm dating Sarah," John looks away, and you can tell that he's feeling like a fool, navigating a one-sided conversation, "but I think we're going nowhere. So, I, well. . . I really like her, but. . . it'd save us both the time and effort if we break up. It's not as intense as what I have for you—"

Here it is.

He meets your gaze, so open, so hopeful, adoring. You envy his simplicity. You feel your shoulders drooping in defeat.

"You're mistaken."

He stills, mouth closes. He blinks. A crow calls out somewhere outside. Then a deathly silence falls over the place. It literally does. He swallows whatever he's been eating, and he looks like he's bracing himself.

Sharp intake of breath, "Pardon?"

Close your eyes, set your head back, careful not to touch John's legs under the table with yours. Look disinterested. Steeple fingers, "Correction, you feel nothing for me."

John looks like his world has fallen apart. You know the look, you just don't open your eyes to see it. You lay your information in front of you, ready to pour out the cold-hearted analysis that you did over the night John spent breathing on your shoulder.

"What you did last night was a by-product of your need for reassurance that we were both alive. You must have done the same in the army, sex after a crossfire that nearly killed you and your comrades. Coping mechanism. Face it, John. We faced life-threatening situations over the past three days, and during the Black Lotus case. It culminated in yesterday night. It's not because you want to look for anything with me."

Nothing more.

He doesn't say a single word. He isn't even looking. You know even if your eyes are closed. John is predictable when it comes to this.

He silently goes back to his breakfast, forlorn waves rolling off him. Then you finally open your eyes. His head is bowed, too bowed for eating, almost as if he's hiding his face. Weird restlessness in your chest, light and heavy at the same. Makes you want to contract into yourself, to the point of no return from self-collapsing into a hole black and void.

The breakfast is extra-slow, like time slowing down in a region of high gravity, he's taking his own time. You want him gone, you need to be left alone. You open your laptop again, and you stare at the screen, at your website, at your catalogue of cases. You've always ranted about John preferring sensational titles to his blog. You try not to think of your own titles to some of your past cases, some of them now saying _Never had time to write case notes. See my colleague John Watson's summary of the case._

At last, John gets up, clears his throat like always, like nothing's happened, "Right, I'm off."

You're still staring at #207 tobacco ash from _Pall Mall_. Refuse to look up. Hit a click, show him that his leaving or coming doesn't really matter. Why would it? It's inconsequential compared to what you're so diligently working upon. In a world that houses you, John Watson's existence is trivial. Should be trivial. In fact, in a world as cruel, John Watson shouldn't have had existence at all.

Slowly, footsteps recede. He picks up his bag from the couch, and lingers in the archway, "Just one thing, Sherlock."

You look up. Mouth is tight, tension back in his shoulders. You're only thankful he's not back to his cane again. What else does he possibly have to say after all of it? _I hope you'll reconsider us again?_ You hope John's got his pride to say something worthwhile.

"You were the one who kissed me."

With that, he leaves. His footsteps recede, clear as warning bells. You watch him walk down the pavement, tense yet unaffected. John's conclusion was logical. He thought you reciprocated his feelings, so he wanted something. You were the one to act in an foolish manner, letting go of what you wanted all along.

It was logical.

You look for the revolver, and then you remember that he's taken it away. Fuck.

And you thought you were impervious.

 

* * *

 

 

You watch him fret around the flat. Shoulders sloping towards right, that's unnatural. John favours his left. Your eyes run over his hairy legs. You remember kissing him there, his knees, the bruises there. You remember the weight of them on your shoulders, around your waist. If you hadn't rejected him, you'd have had him again. Would've touched him without restraint, the marvel that this ordinary man is. You're still at a loss to understand how he survived the traitorous world at all with being so caring and trusting.

It's been more than a month since. He's taken extra impetus to write down every single detail in his blog. You read it sometimes, when he was away for a couple of weeks in New Zealand. He says he was, you say you didn't notice, because that's how you're supposed to be when nothing extraordinary has happened. He broke up with his boss-slash-girlfriend shortly after you two slept together, regardless of what you said to him.

He's showered. In few minutes, he'll go back upstairs, dress for his date, a bit too meticulous but the girl would obviously be too dumb to notice that he has dressed to impress her. At least he looks like he's going to get lucky tonight. You don't want to look at him.

There's a spot of blood right under his ear. The drop hangs on, doesn't let go, light enough to defy gravity. John hasn't noticed it, and you are eyeing it. You don't realise it, until he speaks, that he's caught you looking.

"Seriously, if you want something, go get it. Don't make that face wishing if I'd get it for you," John says, not very tenderly.

How easy for John to ignore and forget what you chose to nip in the bud. You rejected him, his advances. It should've been hard on him. Instead, he took a trip to New Zealand, and was fresh as a daisy when he returned. You were still the same.

And he's still taking his chances with this new person he's going out on a date with. How do people do this, another chance? Is one not enough to teach them a lesson for a lifetime?

You write back to Mr. Nordstrom, telling him not to go near any surveillance devices for a week, that his melting laptop is not an accident.

"Don't try too hard," you advise, hopping you sound offhanded, "she'll notice."

John stops, looks at you. Jaw tightens, breathing stops. You've made a difference in his demeanour, but he isn't considering your advice.

"Thanks," the voice is somewhat tight, "but I don't come to you for dating advice."

Why would he? Just a friend, isn't that what you are?

What happened to being a colleague?

You heave a sigh and go back to your email. John leaves and you're left staring after him. You'd be lying if you said that the easygoing camaraderie is gone between the two of you.

Phone rings. Lestrade. About that speckled woman Molly was bantering about. Case, yes!

 

* * *

 

"Only you can help us, Mr. Holmes. Everyone says you're the last resort," the grandmother says. She used to be a ballet dancer in her youth, you can tell plain as day. She now puts her legs to use at playing with the granddaughter and the dog in their lawn, catching flying saucers and boomerangs as much as she can. Eats baked beans and toast for breakfast, rosemary beads, meticulous house. Diabetic, doesn't follow diet chart. Would die soon, regardless of diabetes, with that foreign growth in left lung, pushing up against the vena cava. Girl's mother missing, father dead. Obviously dead. They're idiots to believe otherwise. Case closed, corpse to investigate. Similar murders all over the city.

She sniffles a bit, and she's trying not to cry. But a single fat tear just leaves her eyes, and the seven-year-old granddaughter, she reaches out and wipes it away. Would've been better to let the tear fall. It is considered better for women to just cry things out. Wiping tears won't help if there are more to follow.

You're sitting in your place, in your chair, one lofty leg over the haughty other, face impassive; the very picture of sympathy. John's lips curve down in compassion for them. How, how does he manage these things, managing these feelings and then being able to separate them from memory and work on the problem? If you did such a thing, you'd never be able to forget the image of the crying old woman and the distressed girl from your mind. How does John do it? Where did he learn all this from?

"My dad's gone for three months," the little girl says in a forlorn voice, and the grandfather, stoic, back straight, fingers tapping nonsense in Morse on the right knee, he's watching you. He's interesting, a scientist by profession, stamp collector by hobby, but not the girl's father's murderer, so his status is unimportant.

"Not gone," you correct her, you can't keep it in anymore, and you feel John's head turning to look at you, and before you can utter anything, the look in his face is apparent. _Try not to be yourself_.

"You _deduced_ where he is?" she asks hopefully.

You sigh. John's made this word 'deduction' like a slang in his blog. But it's a seven, so you'll deal with their thick-headedness.

"He's dead. Obviously. And yes, I'll take the case."

The grandmother lets out a pained squeak, and you can see John's jaw tightening, his head slowly, angrily turning to look at you. You shrug, playing the _I-simply-told-the-truth_ free card, but in his eyes there's no excuse for this.

The grandfather is up, walking towards the door. You gaze up condescendingly at him. He's been no help to act so proud around your flat.

"But. . ." the girl begins helplessly, "he can't BE dead!"

You narrow your eyes. Have you missed something? Have they told you something you don't know of? Never base conclusions without all the data! How're you supposed to know how much data?

"Why can't he be?"

"Because," she tries to speak, "he's. . . my dad."

John's eyes are homicidal, and your expression softens. You're ashamed of yourself. You look down. Don't think. Hard not to think. Maybe they're in the right place. Maybe John and the others are right in the world, for the world. Maybe you aren't in the right place.

"My apologies—"

"I don't know what you think of yourself, Mr. Holmes," the grandfather is angry, just like John was once upon a time, "but being the best detective really doesn't give you the audacity to talk to a child like that!"

You close your eyes. You know what he's hinting towards. No, you're not being arrogant. You're just being truthful. A man of science like him must understand. Scientists have given their lives over the truth in the past. And yes, it does give you the license to be harsh, if only it's the truth.

"I said I'll take the case," you say calmly.

"Come on Maude," he looks at his little family, and the little girl looks beseechingly at you, "Time to go."

"I'll show you out," John says at once, standing up. He refuses to look at you.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson," the grandfather says, "but we can manage the stairs after this."

"I insist," John says humbly.

You watch them walk out on the pavement. You watch John helping the grandmother into the cab, you watch the little girl giving John a kiss on the cheek. This human shell is sometimes so difficult, so inadequate to contain all of it.

Roll your eyes if it makes you feel that John is overreacting. Call one of your homeless networks, you've kept tabs on the father all along. He's one of your rats, and he had taken an unplanned trip to Oman three months ago. The wife followed shortly after. Wife killed him? Not enough data. Rats deserting a sinking ship are always too tricky to tell.

You wait for John in the flat, to give him all the facts, how you know what you know.

He doesn't come back. You peek at the street. John is gone.

 

* * *

 

"Milk," you remind John when he comes trudging back carefully after a couple of hours. Remind him of what is normal because you want to keep normal. Since when? Wasn't normal boring?

He looks at you, you try to keep working unaffectedly on your laptop. Break into Home Office records, of international travel with the help of an employee who owes you a favour.

"What are you trying to prove?"

"Not prove," you reply automatically, but you know you're answering his question, "Right now, I'm going through Richard Thomas'—that girl's late dad—itinerary," smirk, "he's been a busy little bee—"

"What if Mrs. Hudson went missing, and someone told you that she was dead?"

You look at him, "I'd be searching for her, so someone telling or not telling would really not make any difference."

John's mouth is open. He's trying to come up with something, something cutting. One blink, two blink. You've disappointed him again. Why is it so easy to disappoint him as it is to impress him?

"Right," he sits down in his chair—the chair, because it's technically your furniture, most of it anyway—and opens the newspaper, "tell me if you need anything."

You go back to your laptop and phone," Milk."

 

* * *

 

He's sitting beside you in the bus. 74. Bus, you didn't take a cab. You've been following the driver, another big rat. Easiest way is to board the no. 74 to Baker Street Station, several of which disappeared between hours of twelve and two in the afternoon.

His leg is touching yours, yours is touching his. You don't mention it. Neither does he. You tell yourself that you have to careful about thirty metres away from the turnaround where the buses usually disappear. It's far away. John doesn't move away. You move your leg away, but then you touch again.

You calculated that something disastrous would happen if you two were ever intimate. Contrary, everything became normal. Maybe John accepted your explanation. Maybe he thought that you were right after all.

"Sherlock, we're close."

You look up. You are. He is far away.

"Sherlock, quick," John hisses in our ear, "what are we doing?"

"We're going to borrow the bus for a while," you say, and you get up. Leave him behind. Twenty metres, acceleration less than 1 metres per second square so you can take the turn safely even after knocking the driver out.

"What?!"

 

* * *

 

"You okay?"

John peeks into your room. You haven't changed. You're in your bed, shoes still on. Mummy would've been horrified. Go away.

Don't reply.

Guilty shuffle of feet, "Mycroft phoned."

"I wouldn't expect anything less," try to sound bored.

"Asked me to stay with you." He sits on the bed beside you. You try not to flinch. He's maintaining his distance, respect him for it, his attempts to be flatmates and colleagues, and to a certain extent, friends.

You look at him. He's watching you, the rise and fall of your chest. His festive jumper is really awfully patterned. You try to think about that, but you can't. Your mind is preoccupied. With thoughts that must not make home there, owing to their self-destructive and addictive nature.

"Since when do you do Mycroft's bidding?"

He's quiet. You look away. Why's he here when you don't even want him to? Why wasn't he there during those two weeks of loneliness when he went off to New Zealand? Why wasn't he there when you went to the morgue and tried to look unaffected while you saw The Woman dead on a slab in front of you? Thank God he wasn't there.

He slips off the bed, and then you feel hands on your feet, hands that once curled around you and held you tight when you lost control of yourself inside him. Loss of control is unacceptable.

"No shoes on the bed," he says, and you realise that he's just taking your shoes off, "You'll drive Mrs. Hudson out of her wits one day."

You lie on your side, lifeless. She's gone. Why would she leave the phone with _you_? Being dead didn't require her to plot any more strategies, or keep those photos for safekeeping. What is possibly there in it, apart from photos, something more personal maybe? Was there something in it that she'd want you to see?

"You sure about being okay? With Irene Adler. . ." you hear John gulping, "dead."

"It's twelve," you say instead.

"Boxing Day," he reminds you, "No clinic."

Silence on your part.

"You really loved her, didn't you?"

This is unlike him. Usually, he'd leave you silent. He isn't the sort to talk about such things. He's a guy who'd rather go for humour than the truth. But he's still speaking.

"She was beautiful," John's looking up at the ceiling, and if you're not mistaken, there's a slight tinge of grief even in his voice. Is that possible? Feeling grief like that for someone else's pain? You've never indulged in empathy, thought that you couldn't handle the irrationality of your own sentiment, let alone someone else's. And here's John, he's grieving for you, and he'll be okay tomorrow. How?

"She was, really," he shakes his head, "and clever and undoubtedly much more charming than anyone I've ever met. And maybe a bit ruthless. A bit too much, I think. And maybe just a bit mad, like you," a hand on your shoulder. His words don't make much sense, he should go, waste of time and effort. You look at the hand, and up at him. The look on his face can't be mistaken for anything less than agony.

_Like you._

That's why he's still speaking. Not just grieving, but wistful. A bit envious too. You know, but it doesn't make sense, and it's _frustrating_.

 

 

In the morning, you wake up to see John asleep in a chair next to you, still in that watch-keeping posture, just like Mycroft had ordered him to. Although, you have a hunch that it might be on his own volition.

Soft shadows play across his face, giving a depth to him previously unseen or ignored. In his sleep, his lips are still pursed, his arms folded and legs crossed, chin resting on chest. To an outsider, you look the same: permanent frown on your forehead, look of perpetual curiosity and keen introspection on your face. You are a mess on the inside. You slowly reach for him and keep a tentative hand on his thigh, watching his face for any signs of waking up.

How you slept with the storm called Irene Adler in your head, you don't know. All you know is that you didn't hear him shouting in his sleep.

Your fingers crawl to her phone tucked under the duvet. You look at the screen again.

I AM ____ LOCKED

Helpless, you keep it back inside.

 

 

If you weren't so consumed in yourself, you'd notice the fine details of the change in John's demeanour. He's affected too. It's subtle, much subtler than what you're like. He still talks, he still watches you when he thinks that you don't know, he still makes small talk with Mrs. Hudson, doesn't even mention his  breakup once. Forget her, she's unimportant. He still goes out, and you look down the pavement, see him getting into a black car.

It's not Mycroft. Mycroft has grown out of his habit of kidnapping John at least, having being ridiculed by the latter endless of times.

Moriarty. He's been lying low all the while. This is perhaps his next game.

Abandoning your emotional state with your violin and your dressing down, you put on your belt and socks and shoes, the jacket and the coat and the gloves, and you make a pursuit for it. Call your homeless network, trace John, license plate SK08ZTL. Even the car's suspicious.

 

 

Not Moriarty. Abandoned power stations isn't his style. No memento or personal touch like the Pool.

And then you hear it. Not just her voice, but his too. Beneath the betrayal is the awareness of the vehemence in John's tone, _"I'll come after you if you don't."_

You swallow. Every physical process continuing your existence is trivial compared to the suspense that the anticipation of John's words create inside you.

"What do I say?"

"WHAT DO YOU NORMALLY SAY? You've texted him a lot!" John bursts out, and for a moment, you feel a rare moment of pride, like a child who's just witnessed Batman defeating the Mr. Freeze. There's just so much here, so many emotions that keep cascading into a mess and for once, you let them remain in that mess as you hear the Woman's voice, a bit intimidated.

"Just the usual stuff."

"There's no usual in this case." Voice tight as always. Has he ever known a life without tension or burden?

His loyalty touches you in a way nothing has ever been able to touch. Why's he still fighting for you, when he has an idea about how you feel for the Woman? You rejected him. You never stuck up for someone who rejected you. Given you were in John's place, you would probably have moved out.

"Does that make me special?"

You realise you've missed some part of the conversation.

"I don't know, maybe."

There's something akin to humour in her tone, and your blood flares when she says, "Are you jealous?" in _that_ tone. Even you, with your limited emotional intelligence, would know how the vocalisation of it would hurt John. Barely a week ago, you had the evidence that John hadn't moved on yet, and. . .

"We're not a couple."

"Yes you are."

Can't see John's face at this moment. You need to see.

"There. I'm not dead. Let's have dinner."

You can imagine the awful look of derision on John's face at that, and then. . . wait. You. . . actually could predict that. Empathy.

The realisation has far-reaching consequences, namely you not setting your phone to silent as it chimes its vulgar text alert. Time to leave, to weigh the two of them. Of the Woman's betrayal, and of John's depth.

 

* * *

 

When you're alone in your room, and when you know that John's in the room upstairs and not beside you, you take her phone out and look at it, at the screen again.

I AM ____ LOCKED

It's a four-lettered gap. You think of John, and you slyly fill in.

I AM JOHNLOCKED

Feeling terribly mortified, you delete it, as if John were standing right behind you and you lock the screen. Pretend to be asleep, as if John can see through the floorboard and right at you, keeping watch over you like the Christmas night.

 

 

It's what suddenly strikes you in Mycroft's study. That one act of foolish sentiment that could've overwhelmed you to type in 'JOHN' as passcode could have overwhelmed her as well. She wanted to play, see if you were as good as they said, if you could see the facade that she was building, the disguise that hid her real emotions, her self-portrait. But she communicated her interest in your language, in which you were all too fluent. Her emotions got the better of her facade, the better of her judgement, and she was too caught up in the challenge of you finding out than the consequences. The game was too elaborate. . .

". . .you were enjoying yourself too much. . ."

Enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine. . .

". . .craving the distraction of the game, I sympathise entirely. . ."

. . . But sentiment?

"Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side."

Pick the phone up, but this time type in the game changer, not what you can't have ruling your head.

"This is your heart. . ."

You see her destruction reflected in the tears in her eyes. One big mistake. Cold waves roll off you. Suddenly all that warmth that you felt for her is gone. Never again. Not the one. She doesn't belong in your world. She has no place there.

". . . and you should never let it rule your head."

Nothingness. You dismiss her with a small "sorry about dinner". How trivial and volatile, sentiment is. Six hours ago, you could've done anything for her, now you don't feel the tiniest bit except for smugness and derision.

_Look at us both._

Return to John. Even though his existence in your world is unexplainable, it is very much there, and you can't argue with what's staring you right in the face.

 

 

John's not there in the flat by the time you get back. It's more than twelve midnight. You feel a bitter twist in your jut, wringing out tighter till you can't breathe. Till today you could tolerate the loss of self-worth you felt when John spent his nights with his girlfriend. Today, it's something else.

You take a whiff of the air. Something's wrong.

"You're here."

You turn. Irene Adler is standing in front of you, she's looking up at you, expression unreadable as always.

"I see Mycroft let you go," you whisper, taking off your gloves and setting them on the table. She's standing in the doorway, between you and your bedroom, "How unlike him."

"Like you pointed out," and this time, her voice isn't the slightest bit seductive as it always used to be, "he was feeling unkind."

She's still in that same dress, no change in her hair, still immaculate. No one can tell that she'd be dead within a month. Of course, a month. Even by the standards of her intelligence, six months was a vast over-calculation. And this woman, Irene looked so tender, so alluring then, just a few hours ago in your dressing gown in front of the fire. . . now she's just the shell.

You go to your chair and pick your dressing gown up, folding it up slowly. Why're you doing that, "Has no one ever taught you to keep the things you use in their place?"

"That's what I've been doing all my life with my camera phone, Sherlock. You were in place," she comes closer, but she doesn't touch. Her eyes hard, her neck exposed, yet she looks every bit the predator, "but then your ego got the better of you. Your ego against my life."

No "Mr. Holmes" this time. Only "Sherlock". No disguise, or deception.

You stay silent. At this distance you should feel her breath on your face, but you don't. But you can hear the accusation in her voice _How could you do this? Did I mean so little to you that you could toss me away just like that?_ As if she was any different.

"You threw me to the wolves to feed your ego, Sherlock. It would've cost you only embarrassment, this fiasco, but now it will cost me my life instead. Don't you _dare_ teach me about keeping used things in their place."

You let out a derisive snort and push past her, hang your coat up. She's right. She's paying a big price for your ego, but it's her fault, "The price you paid for your association with Jim Moriarty."

Turn, look victorious.

She bites her lower lip. Her blood-red lip colour doesn't smudge, "And what about John Watson?"

Fight hard to keep that look of victory on our face. What she is implying is right. Those who have affections for you are often resentful for being so. You don't have friends. Rules of the universe, you shouldn't.

"You're not safe here. Mycroft has cameras here," you look around to prove your point, "somewhere."

The tables are turned. Her hips swing as she walks to your doorway. She's about to leave, "Talk about used things in place."

You look at her carefully. Why is she pointing this out if she loves you? You wouldn't point something like this out to John's girlfriends.

"I'll make it alive, Mr. Holmes. You don't have to indulge in small mercies."

She smirks, all cold edges and "Mr. Holmes" and suddenly she's no more just Irene Adler in front of the fire. She's The Woman again, and you believe her.

And with that she's gone. She'll survive. And every time you're reminded of her escapade, you'll smile and remember The Woman.

 

* * *

 

It's not night yet, and yet the place is pitch black. The only light that there is because of the beams of light from your and Henry Knight's flashlights that pierce through the thick canopy of vegetation. Henry stumbles, and you make out the obstacle, avoiding every time. You've never engaged in small talk with anyone except for a case, but you find yourself relaxing around Henry in a way you usually don't relax around normal people. Maybe because he reminds you a bit of John, with his fears and the trauma and, to an extent, courage at having come with you back here.

"Well, mates are mates, aren't they? I mean, look at you and John."

Despite your precautions, you stumble when Henry says this. You lower your flashlight, the fog around you reflects the light back. Is it really that obvious?

"What about us?" And you can't help that your voice is a low, possessive—and a tiny bit defensive—growl when you say it.

"Well," he turns a bit, and the tension disappears a bit when you realise that he meant it offhandedly, "I mean he's a pretty straightforward bloke and you. . ."

You look away at that. At the place Henry calls the Dewer's Hollow. It's dark, desolate, as poetic as Henry described. Focus. Squint. Go. See. Most people are idiots to be fooled easily by such things. Henry isn't one of them.

Your feet sinks when you step on the marshy ground. Marshy, why is it marshy? Tread carefully, where's John? Irrelevant to your discoveries. He might distract you with his talking and that's exactly what you can't have.

You feel yourself speeding up as you go down. Your breath picks up, your nerves become jittery as you look around frantically. Why's that happening? Any moment something's about to happen, what? Henry's following you. He should. Maybe something would attack him, and damn, John is the one who has the revolver on his person. Where's John, you need John.

Growling, snarling from everywhere. Henry did say that a hound killed his dad. Is it going to be a hound, Baskerville, Baskerville, Baskerville, aargh, it's frustrating, the suspense.

Footprints. Yes, a dog. Too large for a dog. Maybe a gigantic hound after all.

Howling, you look up. Where is it? Where is it?

And then you see it. Huge, red eyes, gleaming sharp teeth that can tear you to pieces in mere moments. Your hand, and the beam of flashlight, is surprisingly steady when you're looking it in the eyes. Henry beside you lets out a gasp, and you. . .

It's gone.

You flinch, blink fast, erasing the evidence of virtual image still imprinted into your retina. Think, no you can't. Think, no you can't! It's not real. You didn't see anything. You saw nothing. Denial. Push past Henry, what the hell was that?

 

 

In the inn, John joins you. He goes on about something that you can barely process. You have never felt something like this, never felt something just plain scary and _chilling._ To the very core, and sitting in there, till it freezes you over. How's Henry taken this? How did Henry come back knowing he'd see this with a very real threat of death?

Are you the real coward, running away every time something new and intimidating comes on?

John mentions something about Morse and UMQRA. You breathe deeply, he mistakes your reaction as commiseration for sounding stupid, and then goes more like you, stating what you've got. Afraid of offending you in the slightest. You're still his hero. How're you still a hero when you can be afraid of something so easily?

You let it go. You tell him the truth, the one you didn't tell Henry. Would've been better if you let Henry believe, but for some reason you only trust John to let him know this. He won't believe you, of course, and you wouldn't expect him to believe and he'd even laugh.

But he's still bringing you back from the edge. He says you're worked up, too much faith in your faculties to believe that you're genuinely afraid, _it was dark and scary and of course, you couldn't make out much_. You are, really. You're insecure and paranoid and irrational, and of course, he's just saying that you need to relax, he isn't saying that there's something wrong with you, and yet. . .

"THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH ME, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

With every word that you utter, you know you're losing him. This time, it isn't awe, it's desperation in him, the way his mouth is hanging open, the look he's got on his face.

 

"Why would you listen to me?" he says, "I'm just your friend."

"I don't have friends!" you spit, and at that moment, it's a lot for you to process. So much that you don't register John's absence till late and regret your words.

If you weren't his friend, why would he be willing to die for you?

 

It's been over an hour since John left. You don't know where he went off. You want to see him again, you want to touch him and hold him again, to be reminded of what is real and what is not. In retrospect, a night of love would not be a very good measure of reality.

You're playing with your phone. What to send to John? What to say to John? There are no words, but you need something, and your ego is too big to be hurt. Like the Woman said.

Is he mad at you? Would leaving Baker Street be the first thing he'd do. He's much too loyal, he'll stick with you through till the end, your rational brain that has dissected John's character says so, but you can't help but feel insecure about your relationship with him.

 

Until you spot Louise Mortimer in the pub. She's John's type. Pretty, average intelligence, smart. You type out the text.

And leave for the moor. John's gun is in the suite, weapon enough to fight any bears for the night, tuck it in and leave. Avoid the minefield. As for the hound, it's a local deity, unwilling to commute, so you're safe in that respect.

 

* * *

 

You don't talk to John when you're being escorted back to the Baskerville facility by the Military Police. Nobody talks to nobody actually. Lestrade is quiet beside you, and Henry is quiet beside him, but there's peace in his face. At least. John's looking out of the window, and you're stealing glances of him through the mirror from the other side.

Barrymore isn't pleased about Frankland, or the fact that you were right all along; someone had been up to something right under his nose. But then he hands you a cup of water, he out of countless people who could've.

A monkey's screech. You drop the water on Barrymore's shoes. Say sorry. He looks at you with pity as he brings you another glass. Why pity?

Baskerville's health centre is a white place, boring, boring. Mycroft would love such things, again. The check-up is tedious. Lestrade and John are reported unaffected, least exposure to the HOUND chemical. To your mortification, you'd be jittery and generally very vulnerable for some days, extending your vacation in Devon by more than a week, When the doctor says that somebody needs to take care of you, you try not to see how John involuntarily steps forward and then checks himself.

Henry is in a worse position than you are. Although not as paranoid and terrified as he was, he gave poor responses to their reflexes and motor control tests. But when they decide that you are to be released, Henry comes up to the two of you, and gives you his first real smile. At least you think it's real. Your heart melts in compassion for this poor young man, who spent twenty years of his life terrified of something so ordinary.

"Thank you, Sherlock," he says, and he extends a relatively stable hand.

You're surprised. You've treated Henry like shit throughout the case, laughed at him, stressed him out, made him face his fear. True, you and John gave his life a new meaning, a new direction, but. . .

"He means thank you too," John steps up, and you realise that you've been staring at Henry with your mouth open.

Henry lets out a nervous laugh, "Why would he thank me? I got him into so much trouble. He'll be sick because of me."

John looks at you. You blink, see him shake hands with Henry, "Remember, _it's been brilliant_ and all the timing at the Hollow?" He imitates your lofty manner, and you can't help but give him, the two of them, a soft tentative smile, "You look after yourself, Henry."

"You too. Thanks for everything."

 

* * *

 

"You know, what you did was good."

You look up from your phone, adjust yourself in your bed. John is assessing you from the chair, eyes a marvellous transparent blue, betraying the depth of him.

"What?"

He comes near you, drags the chair and the book he's reading. It's a biography of someone you've never heard of.

"The thing with Henry," he nods, "showing him that it's just a dog and nothing to be afraid of," he smiles kindly down at you, "it was good. You're not usually like that with your clients."

You frown, "I don't understand."

"You and Henry parted on good terms, I meant. Most of your clients feel victimised even if they're grateful."

"Mrs. Hudson wasn't victimised. She even gave me a special rate on her flat!" you're a tad too defensive.

"Yeah," he's patient. Something else to add, "that actually is a plus to my point. You have friends, you know, believe it or not."

Blink in rapid succession when he puts his hand on your shoulder, neutral space, not intimate. Look at his lips, they look willing, inviting.

Lean in.

Touch. Soft, linger. Not wet. Hand on your cheek. Tender. Don't open eyes. He's proud, for something you didn't know you had in you. Breathe him in. He smells like the breakfast he just had, and the cheap shower gel in the suite's bathroom and his aftershave. You put your hand on his, the one of your cheek. Feel the bruises he has collected on his knuckles for having punched someone for you.

All too soon, he's breaking away, "Oh God, I'm— _shit,_ I'm so sorry, I didn't quite mean—that wasn't—I. . ."

You move away as he does. You know he didn't mean to. But you did.

 

* * *

 

John's sleeping. Head on the counter, supported by his arms. Muscles are going to be terribly upset tomorrow. Went to Mycroft, perhaps to deride him. Mycroft did what he had to. He could've been cleverer.

What a curse, emotions. Last kiss you had with him was months ago, in your shared suite in Devon. Since then, you haven't gone down that path at all. He's been with you through thick and thin, escaped an arrest, given up and risked his everything because he believed that you were in the right place in the world. Maybe you aren't. Your meeting him was a cataclysmic event, you loving him was even more so, and the consequences of which you know you'll face today.

Phone rings. He picks up. False call about Mrs. Hudson being shot. Obviously false. If Mycroft knows about those assassins, then he's keeping level 5 security around Baker Street.

And then it comes.

"You MACHINE! Sod this. Sod this! You stay here, if you want, on your own."

 

If you were a machine, why would you die for him?

 

 

You're standing on the edge. This time, there's no one to pull you back. Only John's voice in your ear, and that too electronic. The real one is standing there, arm extended, eyes pleading you not to.

"Goodbye John."

In your world, John Watson shouldn't have had any existence. But he did, somehow. The price you're paying is too small for those mugs of tea and acts of love and compassion.

John cried out.

And you fell.

 

THE END

~~~

I close my eyes, Inis Mona  
And reminisce of those palmy days  
I moon o'er you, Inis Mona  
As long as I breathe  
I'll call you my home

- _Inis Mona,_ Eluveitie

**Author's Note:**

> In case you didn't realise the end, there was this TRF theory on Tumblr saying that Sherlock jumped and survived solely on chance, and that he had no backup plan called LAZARUS and that he really intended to die for John. Since I found it hopelessly romantic, I put it in here, and so the 'Major Character Warning' is kinda justified.
> 
> Thanks for reading this giant!


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